


I May Be On The Side Of The Angels

by addicted_2_fandoms



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, BAMF Mrs. Hudson, Boys In Love, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, First Kiss, Fix-It, Graphic Depiction of Suicide Attempt, Idiots in Love, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Oblivious John Watson, Oblivious Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Pre-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Sherlock's Violin, Suicide Attempt, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, War, Wing Grooming, Wingfic, Winglock, Wings, communication is keyyyyyy, they work out their shit, this is a fix it because i cant dealllll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29038749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addicted_2_fandoms/pseuds/addicted_2_fandoms
Summary: Sherlock doesn't have wings, he's never had them. John was discharged from active duty due to an unfortunate accident involving said wings. They don't talk about until they do. Until it's almost too late.The story of two strangers running down the streets of London.The story of how two men became friends through the shot of a gun.The stories of two friends going through life together, no two days ever the same, but their friendship holding through.The story of a secret plan and two friends drifting apart, a maniacal man trying to kill the one thing he held dear.The story of one man letting go, before climbing up and telling the story of another flying high.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	I May Be On The Side Of The Angels

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fix it, so Sherlock's plan at Reichenbach fails. Graphic depictions of suicide and suicidal ideation from both John and Sherlock, please do not read if this may be triggering. Quick summary in the end notes if you think it may upset you.
> 
> This was supposed to be 1-2k words and it turned into this... Haha

Everyone was born with wings or grew them at least, it was common knowledge like your ABC’s or that the earth went around the sun. Somehow Sherlock’s body hadn’t got the memo, about the wings and the earth. If he was being honest, it wasn’t surprising that he didn’t sprout wings at 16, another thing that set him apart. Not that he’d want to, the process looked painful. 

When Mycroft had sprouted wings, he locked himself in his room for a week, only leaving Sherlock with a condescending “You’ll get it someday,” and flying off to god knows where. However, at 16 when Sherlock did not sprout wings, he did everything in his power to keep it hidden. Locked himself in a room for a week and pulled on one of his father’s large coats to hide the lack of feathers, before running out of the house. 

Mycroft had only found out when Sherlock had forgotten to lock his door when changing and he’d barged in unannounced. Sherlock had expected taunts, names, possibly even to be kicked out. God knows he deserved it.

After all, only the wicked were cursed to be flightless. 

Mycroft, however, didn't taunt or laugh at him. Just turned around to let him finish dressing and made him a cup of tea. That was the day he swore to protect Sherlock and be a better big brother, not that he knew how. 

Due to being wingless, Sherlock was left without protection a lot of the time and often forged notes explaining why he couldn’t participate in flying activities, which Mycroft always happily provided. It caused a lot of rumours, some of which concluded that Sherlock had the mark of the devil on his pitch black wings. He didn’t discourage the rumours, in fact often using them to his advantage to get extra reading done or some peace and quiet.

It was said that good people were born with white wings, the angels of society. The whiter your wings, the more pure you were, or at least that’s how they were viewed. Sherlock didn’t believe that the folktale had  _ any _ factual basis until he met Molly Hooper. Molly who was too loud and kept trying to flirt with him for god knows what reason and always let him examine the bodies. 

The first time he’d seen her wings was on accident, it was a late night at the morgue and he hadn’t slept as he watched the sun come up the next morning. As he went to grab some coffee, he looked out the window to see the purest, white wings he’d ever seen, belonging to no other than one Molly Hooper. As much as he wanted to deny it, she was the start of his running tally, proof that white wings were equal to good people, people who loved him, for whatever reason.

Mrs Hudson’s were quite the same, white with tiny specks of grey and Lestrade’s were grey with white streaks. So white became associated with good and not the numerous psych rooms he’d been in. White became home instead of the bleached walls of a hospital room. Until John.

John Hamish Watson crashed into his life without warning and from the get go they’d been close friends. More than, best friends. Not that Sherlock had ever had a best friend. From all the tv dramas he watched, he supposed they were doing it right. After all, they lived together, spent most of their time solving cases and even free time was often spent in the confines of their home just being with each other, and John hadn’t moved out yet, so he was doing alright. 

Despite this, Sherlock had never seen John’s wings. 

The first time he’d brought it up John got defensive and yelled at him, only later coming down to apologise for his ‘unnecessary’ and over reaction. That night had been spent in silence, neither going to bed, just sitting in their respective seats ignoring their cold cups of tea. 

The atmosphere had been heavy and tense, the next morning filled with heavy eye bags that could carry Mrs Hudson’s groceries and refusals to see any clients, while maintaining the thin tightrope of ‘normal’ they’d created for themselves.

Sherlock had put it in the back of his mind palace, not broaching the subject until one quiet afternoon. It was raining outside and there had been no interesting cases since yesterday John,  _ Yesterday! _ and Sherlock was bored,  _ bored, BORED!  _ He sprawled out across their shared lounge as John sat in his armchair, not giving him room to sit down even if John had wanted to. It was John who’d silently put on a cup of tea and handed it to Sherlock with cream and sugar before sitting back down.

“Why have I never seen your wings?” John finally asked. It wasn’t an accusation, it was an honest and genuine question coming from a place of curiosity not judgement nor scorn. “I mean, I know you’ve never seen my wings, but is there a reason for me to have never seen yours?”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?” Sherlock tried with a cheeky grin and wink.

John sighed, hunching slightly, “Stop deflecting.” 

“Why have I never seen yours?” He shot back, glaring at John.

“Now  _ that _ is a story.” Sherlock sat up, motioning for John to keep going. “The bullet that hit my shoulder didn’t just hit my shoulder. If it had been, no discharge would have been necessary. However it also hit my wing, leaving me defenceless in many situations. After getting to the base hospital, they said that the bullet was so close to the base they’d have to amputate and that my other wing would be left with little to no feathers. 

“I haven’t taken them out since then, only once showing them to a girlfriend at the time who I was convinced was my soulmate. We broke up a week later, she said she couldn’t be with a ‘freak like me’.” He chuckled humourlessly. “That was a month before my first suicide attempt. I was saved by a neighbour who’d heard the gun when I misfired, my hands shaking badly.”

Sherlock tried not to look horrified but failed miserably. “You mean, you’re living with virtually one half-working wing?” 

“Yeah.” 

Sherlock cracked a wide grin, unable to stop himself and John immediately got mad.

“It’s not funny. Jesus Sherlock, don’t you have a heart? I just told you about my literal  _ suicide _ attempt and you’re smiling?”

Sherlock immediately sobered up, looking pitifully at an angry John. “I- I’m… sorry John. That wasn’t my intention. I swear I was not laughing at you, much less your-” He could barely bring himself to say it.

“Suicide attempt.” He forced out, clearing his throat. “I am simply laughing at the situation.”

“And why is that?” John raised an eyebrow, looking slightly less angry but still pissed off. 

“Well, between the two of us we have a grand total of one wing.”

John seemed to stall for a moment, processing the information and asking dumbly, “I’m sorry, what?” 

“Well you have one and I have none. Do the maths.”

“I’m sorry- you,” he stopped, not sure how to continue, before deciding to be blunt. 

“You don’t have wings?” John sounded incredulous. “Everyone has wings, whether they’re just clumps of feathers or half formed or massive. Everyone does.”

“Well not me Johnny boy.” The smile Sherlock sported was sad, tinged with regret and years of repression and hurt.

John refrained from asking any more questions about what was clearly a sore spot for the detective. A moment of silence went by before John opened his mouth again.

“Would you like to see mine?”

“God yes.” Sherlock exhaled, having held in a breath as he waited for John’s next move. He looked at his blogger with such adoration and curiosity in his eyes, that John couldn’t bear to let him down.

He methodically removed his coat and unbuttoned his shirt, neither designed for a winged individual, most clothing designed with slits on the back. He took a big breathe in before squeezing his eyes shut and letting his wing out. He didn’t want to see the horror in Sherlocks’ eyes as he took in the one ragged looking wing with molting feathers through it and without grooming for so long. 

He didn’t want to see the pity in Sherlock’s eyes as he truly realised what it meant to only have one wing. Sure, Sherlock could accept it in principle and even defend John due to his own situation, but it was much different to see it in person. 

It was uglier, more gruesome and strange than Sherlock would have ever seen and he didn’t think he could bear to watch his friend slip away. The disgust in his eyes as he took in the pitiful sight. He didn’t want to watch as Sherlock stopped loving him, as he stopp-

“Wow.” The whispered word falling from Sherlock’s lips held so much admiration and reverence that John’s knees crumpled, and he ended up on a pile on the floor, his one wing uselessly shielding him from the calculating man.

John flinched as he felt a hand touch his wing. “May I?”

He’d barely nodded before a hand was stroking through his wings, removing loose feathers and straightening out what was left of them. He started with the scapulars, working from the inside out methodically before moving onto his secondaries. He was gentle, his hands having no signs of labour, but telling of a violinists’ or musicians’ with the fingertip calluses and the accuracy with which he worked.

After that the primaries were easy, just smoothing them and bending the feathers back into shape. It wasn’t a proper grooming session using the warm clothes and wing brushes, oils and equipment, but on that living room floor on 221b Baker Street, something changed. 

“It’s beautiful John.” Sherlock finally said after minutes, maybe hours of silence. 

“It’s broken.” His voice was muffled, head in hands and turning away from Sherlock and inadvertently shoving his wing back further.

Sherlock reached out, gently pulling John’s face towards him. “Doesn’t make it less beautiful.” 

John wasn't sure he could believe him. 

"You don't believe me now, but I hope one day you will." 

John stayed quiet, the words sinking into his skin and consuming his being until all he could think about was Sherlock complimenting his broken wing. Each scrape over his wings felt like fire and he relaxed, unable to tell if he wanted to arch into the touch or shy away from it.

The next morning went as normal as ever, Sherlock complaining about a lack of milk and John yelling that it was Sherlock's turn this week. The pile of feathers had been cleaned up, John couldn't remember doing that so it must have been Sherlock’s doing. Despite his callous attitude and aversion to doing any sort of cleaning he’d done something just for John. 

Something so that John would feel more comfortable and  _ something _ bloomed in his heart, with the name Sherlock attached.

They didn’t talk about the wings again for months until the Reichenbach Fall. Some nights were still filled with dangerous chases, scaling roofs and avoiding the Scotland Yard boys, but some were also filled with feathers and late night talks. 

Sherlock had bought all the necessary equipment for wing grooming, assuring John that it was more for his own benefit than the blogger’s as it gave him something to do. Some of those nights were filled with silence, most with chatter varying from Sherlock rambling on about an experiment he’d performed that day, to John talking about his experiences in the war. It had become something of a ritual, if they weren’t chasing criminals or having ‘romantic’ dinners at Angelo’s.

Sherlock took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. He didn’t  _ want _ to die, he didn’t  _ want _ to leave John, he  _ wanted  _ to live. Chasing down Moriarty’s web wasn’t  _ living _ , it wasn’t what he wanted to do. He could tell John didn’t believe a word of nonsense he was spewing. Sherlock Holmes  _ researching _ someone? With his ego and intelligence. 

He just hoped that one day John would understand and maybe,  _ just maybe _ forgive him.

“This phone call – it’s, er ... it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?” He asked, voice breaking, John’s voice shaky as he replied, pulling the phone back up to his ear.

“Leave a note when?” His voice was accusatory, pleading, sorry, everything he couldn’t say.

“Goodbye, John.” 

_ Jump off the roof. _

_ Throw yourself into the unknown. _

_ The most dangerous thing is to love. _

A rushing sensation filled his body as he let himself fall off the roof, not knowing if his plan would succeed, not caring as long John lived. A rushing sound filled his ears and his eyes watered up from the air rushing in and his body felt light. That wasn’t true, he cared so much, he didn’t want to die, he didn’t want to leave John alone, as he felt his heart race. 

People who survive will say that it was as quick and easy as falling asleep, only to wake up in a hospital room, that the ground came suddenly and without remorse. What they didn’t tell you is that the moment you fling yourself off, you will be filled with insurmountable regret, that you’ll wish you had a rope, that your life was not ending. That you realise too late that it was not you didn’t want to live, it was that you didn't want to live  _ like this.  _

His thoughts swirled around his head, as time seemed to stand still for a moment, although Sherlock knew that was impossible. He looked to see his blogger crying on the ground and the blue inflatable coming closer. 

Landing meant death. Not death of the body or physically, but death of a life he loved. A companion he held above all others. The chance for happiness and everything he held dear. As time seemed to start moving again, he saw a flash of familiar white and the ground coming closer. 

The last thing Sherlock can remember is whispering to himself. “It was all a trick.”

“Stupid, idiotic, dumb fucking stupid, is  _ all _ I can say. And you, how could  _ you _ let him do this?” Sherlock awoke to a very familiar voice yelling, his eyes taking in the white room.  _ Safetywarmthhomelovecare… John _

“John.” He rasped out, his throat dry and voice breaking.  _ John saved him. _

Immediately he saw a wing being raised, sheltering Sherlock’s considerably weak body.

“Sherlock.” He breathed out, voice tinged with reverence and anger melting away. As much as he wanted to yell and scream at the man in the hospital bed, one look at him and his tongue was tied. How could he  _ ever _ survive without him?

“I want to yell at you, you bloody wanker, how  _ dare _ you. How could you be so dumb? Going after him alone, I  _ can’t _ lose you.” His voice broke, half way through his scolding, leaving only hiccuped sobs and a broken man in its wake. 

In a very familiar motion to them both, John collapsed onto his knees on the polished hospital floor, head buried in Sherlock’s blanket, muffling the tears. 

Mrs Hudson, Molly and Mycroft stood at the end of the bed, but one meaningful look at them and a glare in Mycroft’s case, they cleared the room. 

“John, my love. Please look up.” His voice was so hesitant, so scared of rejection, cracking on the word love. He pulled John’s chin up to meet his gaze, his eyes puffy and red, expression so raw that Sherlock has to stop himself from flinching.

He inhaled heavily, trying not to break down. “Darling, I am  _ so _ sorry. I am  _ so, so _ sorry. I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you.” He carefully placed a kiss on John’s forehead and upon receiving no resistance, he placed more light kisses on the medic’s face, murmuring praise in between. 

He purposefully avoided his lips, not wanting their first kiss to be in a hospital room after he had almost died. After he had tried to leave John, would be more accurate. John seemed to have the same idea, just relishing in the comfort of Sherlock’s hand running down his back and through his hair. 

John hadn’t slept in 48 hours, exhaustion taking over his body and the adrenaline and worry for Sherlock wearing off as it registered in his bones. The bags under his eyes were darker than Sherlock had ever seen them and he seemed to have aged years in the past few days. 

Sherlock was too tired to even begin to deduce what it all meant, but had he been more awake he would have taken it as worry for his well being. He was staring at John’s face as the man burst out into laughter. 

It was half-feral, dazed and sounded unearthly, the type that left you tired and slumping in your seat afterwards, the type that came with a really good joke or a long bout without sleep. The latter was obviously the cause as John let out short bursts of laughter, interspersed with long streams of breathless joy. 

Every time the man seemed to relax, he would rile himself up again, only stopping when he was truly out of breath. He wiped tears from his eyes, as he answered Sherlock’s unasked question.

“Well, it seems that I’m always looking after you, but when you’re in a hospital bed, well. You’re the one, looking after me.” The man seemed to find that hilarious, bending over in laughter again, hands on the hospital, gripping on so tight, as if, had he let go, Sherlock would float away.

He eventually wore himself out, so delirious with joy that Sherlock was okay and so tired from worrying about the detective. When the laughing stopped, three curious heads poked around the door, they’d evidently been waiting hours, even Mycroft, his annoying older brother.

He motioned for them to pick John up and place him on the bed, Mycroft and Molly following his silent request as Mrs hudson stood back looking smug. 

“You told him?” It was more a statement than a question, Mycroft still nonetheless nodded his head, looking slightly regretful and remorseful, presumably from the dressing down he’d gotten. 

Molly looked tense and slightly uncomfortable with the atmosphere in the room, looking back and forth between the Holmes’ brothers, occasionally stealing a glance at a sleeping John. He was curled up under the blanket, one leg sticking out and hands tugging the sheet closer to his chin. Sherlock stroked his hair throughout the whole confrontation with Mycroft and Molly couldn't work out if it was more for a sleeping John’s benefits or Sherlock’s own.

The conversation with Mycroft was over, almost as quickly as it had begun, the brothers using a mixture of non verbal signals to communicate, mixed in with a smattering of what to anyone else would be an insufficient amount of talking for the situation. 

Mycroft nodded at Sherlock and got ready to leave, neither woman understanding what had just happened, but just accepting that this was the way things were.

“Tuesday then?” Mycroft asked as he was walking out the door. 

Sherlock gave a firm nod, gesturing to the sleeping man in a silent question. 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, glancing down. “He can come brother dearest. I must be going.”

“Of course.” 

The room stood still for a moment, none seeming to breath or hearts even beat. John’s shuffling brought them back to earth, the filling back their lungs and the room regaining colour, from the black and white it seemed to just take on. Molly ran over to Sherlock’s side, worry prominent on her face, while Mrs Hudson stood back taking in the scene in front of her.

“Come on Molls, you knew about it.” Sherlock pleads with her, begging for what? Her not to be worried, her to have slept more, her to not be angry?

“It doesn't change the fact that you  _ broke _ a man, Sherlock Holmes.” She whispers angrily. 

Sherlock’s conscience was already heavy with guilt and Molly’s scolding only increased it, so he did what he did best, got angry. “How  _ dare _ you.” He raged, no consideration for the sleeping man.

“ _ You _ were in on this, to what? Gain my respect, hope that I’d sleep with you?” He jabbed, knowing the places where it would hurt the most. 

“Cause you  _ love _ me?” His tone was mocking and cruel and he could see Molly almost in tears, struggling to hold them back. Mrs Hudson glared disapprovingly at the both of them, disappointed in Sherlock, but also Molly. Molly knew what she said was hurtful, that it would feed Sherlock’s already guilty conscience. She’d seen it on his face. 

But Molly didn’t back down, she may have been in tears, but she wasn’t weak, furiously whispering back. “I did it, because I have been and always will be your friend, even when you try to pull  _ shit _ like this. Yes Sherlock, I love you, but that’s not my only defining trait, so Sherlock Holmes, I may love you, but I am  _ not _ putting up with this. Sherlock, you need to understand, losing you would have broken him. I didn’t have to watch you jump off a building, okay? Understand how hard that would have been.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, taking in Molly’s words, they vibrated around his skull like they were the only words he’d ever heard, ever learnt.  _ UnderstandlovejumploveyouSherlock _

“I’m sorry Molly. I’m so sorry.” Sherlock looked genuinely distraught after the dressing down he received. “But you know I’ll never love you like that.”

Before Molly could slap him and rant about how that was  _ all he bloody got out of her whole talk _ , he sighed. “I don’t know what it’s like and I’ll spend everyday making it up to him.”

Molly gave Sherlock a peck on the forehead, standing up to leave and making eye contact with him. “You’re lucky John is so strong and that he got there when he did.”

Sherlock looked confused, wanting more answers as Molly walked out the door.  _ What had happened? How had his plan gone so horrendously wrong? _

Mrs Hudson sat with Sherlock for a little, and left with a reminder that ‘she was not their housekeeper’, before going back to Baker Street and making sure their rooms were clean and fridge filled. She was like the mother Sherlock never had, someone who understood his fascination and glee with crime scenes, or not understood persay, but accepted it. Who cared for him, even though she didn’t have to. 

He sent a silent thanks to the universe, someone must have been looking out for him, for Sherlock to be so blessed with a family this wonderful. 

Sherlock was released a few days later, much to the chagrin of John who insisted on him staying a few more days. But once Sherlock had so sweetly told the nurses and the doctors that he was living with a war medic and that he would  _ totally _ take care of himself, they let him go. 

The next few days at home were spent, John worrying over Sherlock and Sherlock getting annoyed at John’s mother henning. The only day they went out was to Mycroft’s for dinner, that was supposed to be a talk about Moriarty and what to do, but it quickly turned into a make fun of Sherlock session. Mycroft sharing titbits about their childhood and John recounting what stupid thing Sherlock had done that week. 

Sherlock pouted and pretended to be embarrassed, but he was secretly pleased that he seemed to be getting his old brother back. Of course it wouldn’t be the same, time, regret and guilt would make sure of that, but it felt right. 

John and Sherlock spent the days and nights skating around that day at the hospital, choosing not to talk about the almost kiss and the revelations of that white room. More cases were solved, Lestrade’s bothered and nights filled with grooming. 

“John, what happened that day?” Sherlock asked one evening, as John was washing up the dishes and Sherlock was flipping through the day’s paper. 

“Hmm?” He hummed, looking up distracted. 

“I mean,” he sounded unsure of how to phrase it and hesitant of the answer. “When… I jumped?”

His voice was tiny and had John not known he was talking, he might have missed it. Sherlock however didn’t miss John’s flinch and tightened grip on the plates and it was all but a few seconds before Sherlock started apologising and telling John not to worry about it.

John put down the soapy dishes, pulling the tea towel off his shoulder and drying his hands, before grabbing his cup of tea. Both men were silent as the air seemed to grow heavier and neither moved for a moment.

“...I saved you.” John finally whispered, his breath coming out forced and tentative. 

Sherlock looked bemused. “How do you mean John?” He asked carefully.

He looked terrified, shrieking back into his seat and curling around his mug. “I flew.”

The two words were a whisper, like a secret he couldn’t tell anyone, not even the walls of Baker Street caught them. Sherlock almost didn’t hear it, breath catching and exhaling harshly.

“You what?” He whispered back, trying not to break the reverence of the room.

John chuckled humorlessly, “there’s a reason no angel commits suicide that way. Wings automatically respond if you are in danger. It stands to reason that mine would react to you. You groom it, take care of it and have never judged me. It stems from hunter/gatherer days, a survival technique of such.”

Sherlock nodded, waiting for the catch, but it never came.  _ Why would John’s wing care so much? _

“I love you Sherlock, you bloody idiot.”

_ Had he said that out loud? John loved him? _

“You did.” He raised an eyebrow at a frowning Sherlock.

“Wait… But how? How did you fly?”

John looked flustered, like he hadn’t expected the question. “I don’t know, one second I was standing on the ground, the next my wing had taken flight and I was landing with an unconscious heap on the ground.” 

_ So that was the flash of familiar white. _

“I was petrified, I can’t remember it all.” He looked like he was blinking back tears and Sherlock felt guilt rise inside of him again.

“I-i’m sorry John, I didn’t even think of how-”

John shushed him with a finger to his still babbling lips. “I know, please don’t. But that was truly the scariest day of my life. Even throughout the war, I didn’t have much to live for, but now I do and I almost lost you. Okay? I’ve forgiven you, I can’t imagine my life without you, it’s time you forgive yourself.”

Sherlock didn’t know how to answer that, but thankfully he didn’t have to as John curled around him, wing out and sheltering Sherlock from the world. When he finally found the air to speak again, even he didn’t anticipate what came out of his mouth next, ruining the moment, but lightening the atmosphere in the room. 

“So, I guess my grooming was good then?” It was delivered with a cheeky smile that had John smiling fondly and usually would have ended with Sherlock’s bruised arm.

“You utter bastard.”

They both broke out into fits of giggles that put the cabbie case to shame, curled up in their own world. 

As the sun was rising through the window the next morning, both had dozed off on the couch, in and out of sleep. Sherlock was currently the one awake, almost taking unintentional shifts, and staring at John’s sleeping form. That seemed to be a common occurrence these days, he mused with a half smile, thinking of the hospital room and his mood immediately somber again. 

He heard John shuffle, zoning back into the real world, the here and now, smiling again because  _ they were both alright. _ His nose twitched and it reminded Sherlock of a bunny, him silently giggling at the comparison that the shorter man would hate. He was still gazing adoringly as John woke up, looking curiously at the detective. 

“You right there?” He asked, only half serious.

“I am now. You’re finally awake Sleeping Beauty.”

John growled at the comparison, swatting at Sherlock like a cat.  _ Oh, and there was another animal like comparison, he was on a roll today.  _

Instead of answering John’s unasked question as to what he was giggling about, he jumped up, grabbing his violin, John sitting up slightly as he saw what the taller man had grabbed. “You gonna play for me then?”

Sherlock suddenly looked nervous, rubbing the back of his neck and not making full eye contact. “...Well, it’s unfinished, but I was hoping you could give me some feedback.”

John grinned at him, motioning for the violinist to start. The first few notes were somber and quiet, before swirling into a frenzy of passion and sound, it told the story of two strangers running down the streets of London. The music paused at a crescendo, a loud noise shrieking suddenly, the story of how two men became friends through the shot of a gun. The music then turned more mellow, becoming almost repetitive with slight variations, telling the stories of two friends going through life together, no two days ever the same, but their friendship holding through. 

Soon enough the melody became somber, slow and almost a funeral march, it told the story of a secret plan and two friends drifting apart, a maniacal man trying to kill the one thing he held dear. The music then descended in a minor key, semitones apart, telling the story of one man letting go, before climbing up and telling the story of another flying high. The music that came next seemed to be an altered version of the repetitive motif he played before, until the violin stopped abruptly and John sat with bated breath.

This was the song John had often heard Sherlock play in the evenings, bits and pieces from a  _ very _ long time coming together. His breath held still. 

“It’s called  _ His Ballad _ .” The room stood still as the earth kept spinning and John swore the dizzy feeling he felt was simply from the movings of the earth, not his own racing heart and the insistence not to breath. 

“How does it end?” He asked, tenderly, so scared to disrupt the quiet of the room. Sherlock put out his hand, pulling the man up. 

John’s eyes raked over Sherlock’s now still hands and lanky form, before making eye contact and seeing everything he was too afraid to say.  _ LovefreedomcareloveJohnSherlocklove _

His voice was almost silent. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock hummed back, eyes now glancing back and forth from John’s eye to lips. John’s hand instinctively went up to his violin, pulling it down and grasping his hand, still curled around the neck, as Sherlock’s hand travelled to John’s waist, pulling him infinitely closer.

The blogger in turn put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder to steady himself, as he heard the violin clatter to the floor behind him, Sherlock’s other hand resting on his waist and his own hand linking together behind the detective’s long neck. Time seemed to stand still as they breathed the same air, Sherlock softly stroking John’s cheek and pulling him into a deep kiss. 

The sun illuminated the room as it rose, casting a yellow glow on everything, and when Sherlock finally pulled back his breath hitched. John had never looked more like an angel than Sherlock had ever seen. 

They both leaned back into the kiss, pulling each other closer and savouring the closeness as their bodies seemed to meld together, until John couldn’t tell where he ended and Sherlock began. 

“Do you wanna know how it ends?”

John nodded, too startled to form words, as Sherlock dipped him, pulling him into a long kiss.

“The song ends like this, and our chapter begins like this.” With that he grabs his violin, launching into a happy, joyous tune that also sounded familiar to John. 

He pulled John’s head onto his other shoulder, waltzing around the room with his violin as John tried to follow his feet, hands around Sherlock’s slim waist and occasionally tripping over his own feet. At the end of their little dance the sun had risen over Baker Street and they were both laughing out of breath. He couldn’t count how many times they’d almost tripped or bumped into something before collapsing into a pile on the floor. 

As John’s wing came out again, pulling the lanky man closer, Sherlock pulled his blogger in for another kiss. 

“I love you John Hamish Watson.” His eyes were filled with adoration for the small man in front of him.

“And I love you William Sherlock Holmes.” He returned with the same ferocity, his smirk cheeky as Sherlock looked indignant.

“How did you-” He didn’t get to finish his question as John started giggling. 

“Y’know, Mycroft is so great for finding out information about little Sherlock.” He giggled again and as Sherlock grumbled he thought that he wanted to be the cause of that smile for the rest of his life. 

“I’m sure he is.” He snarked back, curling into John’s chest and feeling the wing wrap tighter around him. “I’m sure he is.”

Sherlock fell back asleep on the floor of Baker Street, holding his blogger close. He didn’t need to be an angel, not as long as he had his own right here. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock and John find out about how John got a wing blown off and Sherlock never had any one late night at Baker Street. John recalls his first suicide attempt and slightly abusive girlfriend. He is scared fo Sherlock's reaction to his one wing, however Sherlock just grooms it. The next part is the Reichenbach fall, and it describes how Sherlock felt falling in graphic detail and how it felt to 'commit suicide'. He wakes up in hospital and finds John in confrontation with Mycroft. They talk a little and Sherlock has an argument with Molly, being quite rude, before Sherlock is discharged. Sherlock and John go home, confessing their love in the early hours one morning, Sherlock playing John and ballad and finally kissing. 
> 
> Please leave comments and kudos if you enjoyed this fic and don't hesitate to recommend or request any fic ideas in the comments. I can't promise I'll do them, but they're appreciated nonetheless.


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